


This Is What I Live For

by SeventhStrife



Series: Brownham AU's [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Beverly Katz is the Best, Captivity, HELL YEAH I GOT THE HAWKS REFERENCE IN, M/M, Superpowers, Will Graham & Beverly Katz Friendship, basically an x-men au without the x-men, mutant AU, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6146155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeventhStrife/pseuds/SeventhStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this tumblr prompt:</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://bellgriffins.tumblr.com/post/113017994986/au-ideas">they captured you and put me in your room because i can suppress other people’s powers so you hate me but i’m lonely and bored and want to talk to you AU</a></p><p>(9/20/2017 Update: This work has been translated into <a href="https://ficbook.net/readfic/5878643">Russian</a> by the wonderful <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykaon/pseuds/Lykaon">Lykaon</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is What I Live For

**Author's Note:**

> Holy hell this got long. I don't know what happened.

“Whoa, you look like hell.” Will’s lips twitch and he is, not for the first time, thankful for the existence of Beverly Katz. “You alright there, Will?”

Will waves her off, doesn’t look up from his book. “I’m fine.”

“I know you’re not eating,” Beverly steamrolls him, letting the door fall shut behind her. She approaches him and stops a few feet away, arms crossed. Will can feel her determination and worry pulsing steadily, in time with her heartbeats.

Will shrugs, turns a page in the book he’s pretending to read. “I don’t have much of an appetite after a wipe.”

The last one had been worse than usual with a visceral, primal sort of mind that made even the sight of fully-cooked meat nauseating to him.

It had only taken seconds but Will can still feel the foreign mind settling over his like a well-worn cloak, could easily recall the _instinct/anger/joy,_ the rush of skin tearing like paper, bones snapping like twigs, the hot rush of tangy iron when his teeth sank deep into muscle and sinew—

Will shudders minutely, lips pressed tightly against the bile that threatens to crawl up his throat. The man is— _had been,_ a shapeshifter, Class Three. He’d mauled countless others before the FBI caught up with him, and now, thanks to Will, won't be hurting anyone anymore.

Beverly’s face hardly changes, but the minute shift of her stance and the tightening around her lips tells Will more than the steady throb of concern pouring from her.

Withholding a sigh, Will closes his book and plops it down on the coffee table. Just beside it he retrieves a cool glass of water and takes a long pull, wistfully dreaming of the burn of whiskey, and arranges his face into his best semblance of Perfectly Okay before facing her.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

Beverly looks away, lips pursed, and her entire body language is just _wrong,_ stiff and uncomfortable and emanating intense restraint. And what is this? Beverly holding back? It's so unlike her Will can’t help but feel concerned in response. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped.

“What’s bothering you?”

To her credit, Beverly doesn’t even try to deny it as so many others do, even knowing what Will is. Instead, she uncrosses her arms and gestures around her with a wide arc, dark eyes upset when she tries to meet Will’s.

“You know I don’t like this, right?” When Will blinks, uncomprehending, Beverly elaborates with, “This whole _thing._ This arrangement you have with the FBI.”

Surprised, he looks around his small apartment—cell—as if it can supply him with the right words to say. His gaze sweeps to the kitchen he can see the entirety of from his couch, the small dining room table that he uses more for storage than any meals, to the bland art of mountain ranges that hangs where a TV once was.

The beige walls give him nothing, deep underground where everyone sleeps a little better knowing Will Graham is contained and useful.

Beverly is nothing but earnest, he can feel sharp flares of frustration stemming from her inability to do anything, and Will feels a swell of affection for her.

“Bev—”

“I hate it,” Beverly continues, staring hard at him. “And you know what? I think you hate it, too.”

 _I do,_ Will agrees privately. He hates the months and months he’s gone without sunlight, without trees and fields and true, complete silence. He misses the quiet babble of the water, of the crunch of river rocks beneath his feet. Lazy hours stretching ever onward, and the undemanding company of his dogs.

But that life is so far in the past, so unobtainable at this point, wishing for it back is almost ridiculous. Once discovered, Class Four mutants aren't allowed to just _roam_ free, not when they can be helping their country. And he’s been so neatly trapped that the only way he’ll ever leave is when he stops being of use and the FBI has to carve out a plot of land to toss him in.

He thanks the powers that be for Beverly Katz, however. Wonderful Beverly with her calm, warm, quietly orderly mind that Will can spend hours near without losing himself to her every thought and emotion. She visits often and is one of very few bright spots in Will’s new life as the FBI’s official criminal profiler and unofficial hitman.

This time Will is able to summon some sincerity when he speaks.

“I’m fine, Beverly, really.” His mouth twitches into a small smile. “But thanks. I...appreciate how you feel.”

Beverly’s frown falls and she gives Will such a look of desolate helplessness he shifts uncomfortably. A moment later, he winces and stills, eyes moving to the door.

Beverly doesn’t miss a thing. “What? Who’s coming?”

Will just grimaces in response, already feeling a headache coming on from the sheer abrasiveness of the mind coming swiftly and steadily closer, and moves his fingers to his temples to gently massage the area.

The door opens seconds later and Jack Crawford sweeps into the room, wearing his jacket and with snow still dusting his shoulders.

“No,” Beverly says immediately. Jack levels her with a flat look.

“You don’t even know why I’m here.”

“Why do you ever come here?” Beverly retorts with that very specific brand of near-insubordination that only she can get away with.

Without a hint of contrition, Jack faces Will and gets straight to the point.

“We’ve got another.”

“Jack, _no—”_ Beverly starts, stepping forward. “He still hasn’t recovered from the _last_ one you threw him at.”

“I’m well aware of that, Agent Katz, and I wouldn’t ask unless I had to,” Jack tells her, somehow stern, admonishing, and righteous all at once. He looks at Will again, a minute frown making the skin between his brows wrinkle. “This one’s particularly volatile and I can’t keep him on ice for long.”

Will arches a brow at that, intrigued despite himself. “On ice…?”

“Pyromaniac. It’s the arsonist.”

“Ah.” Will is allowed the paper so he’s well aware of the many churches, homes, even stores that have met a mysterious fiery end during the quiet hours of the night in the most rural of towns and the busiest, most populated cities during the day. He’s aware of the countless bodies discovered in their depths, blackened to a crisp and identified only by dental records.

“We’ve got him in holding in a sub-zero cell with restraints, but I would feel more comfortable if he was dealt with sooner rather than later.”

Will’s already nodding and standing, but he spares a glance at Beverly.

She’s clearly pissed if those clenched fists are any indicator, but she softens slightly when their eyes meet.

“Just be _careful,_ Will,” she tells him. She gives Jack a hard look as she goes on to say, “And take it slow. Don’t push yourself.”

“I won’t.”

Will thinks about what he’s walking into to properly prepare himself and reflects on sub-zero temperatures. He grabs the throw blanket off the couch and drapes it across his shoulders. It’s a terribly ugly, quilted tragedy that Beverly had seen at a thrift store and had given him. He covets it as jealously as a dragon with it’s hoard.

“I’m ready.”

The walk is brief and unbearable. Glorified cell his rooms may be, they are _quiet_ and they make sense. Outside, up the elevator, and down countless more hallways, Will passes agent after agent, many of whom’s emotions turn loud and pointed when he passes by, bombarding him with _curiosity/jealousy/fear._ His headache blooms into a full-blown migraine and he can feel the blood draining from his face from the sheer effort of concentration he spends not to let himself be swept up in the current.

Jack’s mind is loud and full of intense focus, and even the brief flashes of _guilt/worry_ he feels when he looks at Will are like painful stabs. Will breathes shallowly through his mouth and counts to one hundred over and over again.

When they reach the double doors that lead to the holding cells Will nearly sobs in relief. Jack swipes his card over the reader and a thunderous lock clicks. He leads the way and Will follows, nearly staggering when the door swings shut behind them and the scores of voices cut off abruptly.

The brightly lit, clinical atmosphere transitions into stark gray concrete and silvered, thick and identical doors, each with their own numerical designation. Their footsteps echo as Jack leads them further down.

Will has a memory or two for each door they pass, each room designed specifically for any and every kind of mutant they could encounter. He’s often imagined himself on the other side, waiting to be erased.

He sometimes wonders if that would be such a bad thing.

Will forces himself back to the present when he senses new presences and he spots two agents guarding the very last door in the hallway, thoughts relatively calm but grating nonetheless.

Jack shows them his badge, as is procedure. The guards only give it a cursory glance before swiping their own simultaneously. With a loud screech of metal, the reinforced door slowly swings inward. A deep chill stretches out of the darkness and Will clutches his blanket tighter.

Will takes a step forward but is stopped by Jack’s heavy hand on his shoulder. He twitches, but Jack’s face shows no sympathy for his discomfort.

“In and out, Will. These two will let me know when you’re ready to be picked up.”

Will nods and after a long, searching look, Jack releases him. Will turns away and enters the room, feeling Jack’s eyes on him like a physical weight on his shoulders.

The door seals shut behind him with an ominous click and the chill suddenly seems amplified. Even in an undershirt, button-up, jeans, socks, boots and blanket, Will feels seconds from hypothermia.

But aside from the faint presence he senses, he’s alone. He basks in it for a moment before stepping away from the door, to the two-way glass that stretches the length of the room.

The room beyond the glass is a glaring, painfully bright white—walls, floor and ceiling. The room is bare but for the lone man in the middle, huddled into a ball in the center, a smudge of riotous color awash in barrenness. His head is nearly touching the ground and his elbows poke out awkwardly, presumably from where they’re restrained.

Will reaches out and places his hand flat on the icy glass as he considers him. It’s difficult to get a read on him, but Will feels a pang of something when he looks at this arsonist. He doesn’t look unlike Will on one of his worse nights, huddled in a corner, clutching himself desperately as if he could crawl into his own skin and fight the demons that plague him.

Will berates himself a moment later and drops his hand. He thinks, _Not smart to empathize with them,_ then feels sharp amusement at the irony.

He could do it here. Reach into his mind, wipe him, and he’d never see Will’s face. He’s done it before, he could do it now.

The man behind the glass shivers minutely and Will stares.

He thinks about the guards outside the door, how he can just barely detect their _unease/fear_ , how Jack won’t even be on the same level as Will because of the possible psychic backlash Will’s so famous for. He thinks about returning to his rooms deep underground, with silence for company and eating what he’s given and being told that he’s not trusted with alcohol.

 _Take it slow,_ Beverly had said.

Will decides to take it slow.

The door leading into the cell is so seamless Will can only find it because of the slight depression in the wall. It’s deceptively heavy when he pushes and he has to sink his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from gasping.

The difference between being in the observation room and on the other side of the glass is like standing outside on a snowy day and being plunged in a frozen ocean. Will’s breath instantly fogs up his glasses and he has to pause a few minutes just to let his prescription lenses clear themselves.

The room is not overly large and it isn’t until he moves to sit against the wall facing the man that the arsonist finally notices he’s not alone.

It’s the door falling shut that does it, echoing in the bitterly cold room like a gunshot. Out of the corner of his eye, Will can see the man’s head snap up, can feel his eyes trained on him and feel his brief flash of _interest/wariness_ before it sinks back into the shadowed caverns of his mind.

Will largely ignores him as he settles on the floor, instantly feeling the cold seep into his bones, but inwardly he marvels. Even the most stoic people are intuitively emotive, Will has learned through experience. But this man’s emotions are strangely elusive, there and gone, sliding off his mind like water on seal-skin.

Will finally gets as comfortable as he can, legs crossed and blanket clenched tight around him, and looks up.

Pale skin, dark, short brown hair, and dark, glinting hazel eyes. He’s young-looking, maybe mid to late twenties, and with quite a bit of muscle beneath the plain t-shirt he wears. He must be freezing.

Looking at Will means he has to sit up to maintain any sort of comfort and Will can see that Jack wasn’t joking; ice that is literally embedded in the ground encases the man’s hands from fingertips to mid-forearm in jagged stalagmites.

Will wonders if Jack had the man unconscious while he did it, or if he looked him in the eyes.

“What’s your name?” Will asks an eternity later, once he’s had his fill of silent contemplation and being observed in turn.

“What’s yours?”

His voice comes out surprisingly steady despite how cold he must be, and Will is impressed at the control that takes.

“I’m Special Agent Will Graham.”

“Well, _Special Agent,”_ the man replies, an impish, sarcastic smile twisting his lips, “I’m surprised my name didn’t come up before now.”

Will shrugs. “I guess they didn’t think it was important.”

The man’s smile widen in response. “I’m hurt, Mister Graham. You’d think after all the trouble I’ve caused, they’d at least mention my name in passing.” The man pauses and Will watches as a shiver wracks his body. “M-matthew,” he tells him, licking his lips. “Matthew Brown, at your service.”

Will inclines his head and Matthew observes him with open interest.

“So, are you the guy?”

“The guy?”

“Yeah. The guy who’s going to stop me and make sure I can’t burn anymore.”

Matthew says this conversationally, with only mild interest, as if they were discussing the weather and not the prospect of having part of his DNA erased. Will’s head tilts slightly.

“That doesn’t seem to bother you,” he points out mildly.

Matthew shrugs as best he can while restrained. “It's not ideal, but it is what it is.”

Will frowns and stops being passive. He reaches out mentally and probes just in time to catch the tail-end of—

“You’re angry,” Will observes, eyes unfocused as he gives his attention to the slippery emotions he can feel Matthew subconsciously repressing. “You’re seething with fury and bitterness; you’ve just gotten good at hiding it.”

Suddenly Will can _see_ him, years and years younger, all of his choices taken from him, his freedom, his very self. All up until he learned to take his power back a little at a time by keeping his true self and feelings a secret. And when he saw fit to reveal himself he made sure that was the last sight _they_ ever bore witness to.

“You psychic?” Matthew asks him, and Will finds himself forcefully wrenched away from the mindscape and dumped firmly in the present. He wonders how much of what he observed he said aloud. Matthew, however, doesn’t react with anger and hostility like he’s used to, but with interest and curiosity. “That what you do?”

“Empath, actually,” Will corrects him. He shifts slightly against the wall.

“How are you going to stop me, Mister Graham?”

Will’s gaze shifts from the space just over Matthew’s shoulder to meet his eyes squarely.

“Our abilities are fueled by our emotions,” Will explains quietly. “Being an empath means I can sense and feel other people’s emotions as if they were my own.” Will breaks contact then, looks over at the far corner of the room. “I can influence them too. I,” Will’s hand pokes out from the refuge of his blanket long enough to make a vague gesture, “fuel them. Make their emotions stronger. All of them at the same time, and the abilities just—burn out, like a star. And then it’s gone, just like that.”

Will glances at Matthew and his eyes seem to be devouring him, as if he can’t get enough of Will talking about how he destroys the most fundamental part of a person. Will tucks his hand back inside the folds of his blanket.

“It’s uncomfortable, but it’s over in seconds,” Will tells him, reassuring.

“It must hurt you,” Matthew says, and Will goes breathless.

No one’s ever...thought of that. Sure, they can see the experience is draining on Will, but no one ever thought to question what if feels like to be Will in that time, standing in the midst of that starburst with no protection and enough psychic backlash it’s a struggle to stay upright most times.

His mask has gotten so good people just assume he’s passive throughout the whole thing, not experiencing it first-hand and getting the brunt of it.

Will licks his suddenly dry lips. “It’s excruciating,” he whispers.

A long moment stretches as the two stare into each other’s eyes and Will belatedly realizes that while he is used to seeing the most intimate parts of a person whether he wants to or not, it’s the first time he’s been _seen_ in turn, and understood for it. A feeling rushes through him so monumental it defies definition and all he can parcel out is regret that he has to do what he does.

Another shiver racks Matthew and the moment is broken.

This time Will doesn’t check himself when another rush of empathy courses through him. He gets to his feet, hissing under his breath at the harsh chill on his bare hands when he pushes off the floor.

Will can’t detect even the faintest trace of fear from Matthew as he approaches, only _confusion/caution_ that mingles with amusement when Will sits next to him, pressed close, and covers the both of them with his blanket.

Matthew presses back the moment they made contact, frigid, and Will can feel every minute tremor that courses through his body. Tentatively, he places an arm around Matthew and rubs his arms up and down, sharing what heat he has.

His head comes to rest on Matthew’s shoulder as he asks, “Is this okay?”

Matthew chuckles, a low, pleased sound. “More than okay. Are you always this accommodating with your psychopaths, Mister Graham?”

Will snorts quietly, feeling a brief smile stretch his lips. “You’re special. Feel very flattered.”

“Oh, I do.”

Will’s simply thankful Matthew seems to be taking it all in stride. Will doesn’t sense any disgust or pity from him, only honest acceptance and interest. He can’t even remember the last time he’d willingly been this close to someone. Probably years.

Will sighs, then brings the hand stretched across Matthew to his temple where he presses lightly. There’s no point in delaying any longer, and Will has long-since passed the point of procrastination. The only reason no one has come in yet is that it typically took Will a long time to get back to the guards after a wipe since he spent who knew how long on the other side of the glass, collapsed and trying to remember who he was.

“Think of something happy,” Will whispers, closing his eyes. He lets himself slide within the murky depths of Matthew’s subconscious. “It’ll be over in a minute.”

A heartbeat, then, “What if you didn’t do it?”

Will actually jerks back a bit at that. “What?”

Matthew’s eyes catch on his and hold, and his smile since the first time Will saw him is completely gone. There’s an almost deadly look of focus in his dark eyes.

“What if you didn’t do it?” he repeats, voice hypnotic and steady. “What if I freed you?” he asks and Will’s heart freezes in his chest. “What if I took you away? You want to leave, I know you do.”

Will’s hands are shaking, he’s shaking all over, but he can’t look away.

“I’m not—being here is—it’s for my own good,” Will manages, but Matthew just tuts, eyebrow raised.

“Come now, Mister Graham,” he chides, gently pushing his shoulder against Will’s. “No need to lie. Not to me. We’re the same, after all, you and I. Do you know what we are?”

“Crazy?”

“We’re hawks, Mister Graham,” Matthew tells him. “And hawks aren’t meant to be caged.”

Finding his voice is becoming increasingly difficult, but Will manages to reply, “Hawks are solitary.”

Matthew smiles roguishly.

“Imagine what they could do if they worked together.”

Will does. He imagines fresh air, the sun kissing his skin, dogs barking and cicadas singing in the spring.

He wants it so bad he _aches_ and the fierce longing surprises him; he supposes he hasn’t been as vigilant when it came to denying thoughts of freedom as he thought he’d been.

“Why?” Will finally meets Matthew’s look, letting his doubt and confusion show plainly on his face. “Why would you free me?” And then, belatedly, “How can I trust you?”

“Test me,” Matthew says straight-away. “You’ll know if I’m lying, won’t you? Ask me.”

Will searches Matthew’s face, unsure of what he’s even looking for. Matthew simply waits patiently as if he has all the time in the world.

“Will you free me, Matthew?”

“I will,” he vows, and even though Will pokes and prods and skims the entirety of his mind for even the slightest reservation, he’s rewarded only with honesty and a surprising surge of determination.

He leans closer, eyes boring into hazel, almost daring Matthew to lie to him.

“Promise me,” Will demands.

“I promise.”

Will’s hands tighten into fists but no matter how hard he looks for it, he can’t find any ill-intent.

He’s telling the truth.

Overwhelmed, Will leans back a few inches, eyes wildly roaming around the room. His mouth speaks without permission, urged by anxiety and excitement.

“I’m not good around large groups of people,” Will tells him. “I need space. And quiet.”

“I can do that,” Matthew agrees instantly, undeterred and completely missing the point being that Will is nothing but a burden. Matthew blinks, and then frowns. “Are you okay? Around me, I mean. Are my thoughts too loud?”

The question pulls a speculative frown from Will and he considers Matthew.

“Actually,” Will says thoughtfully, “You’re fine. Quiet, I mean. Steady, like a river.”

Matthew smiles at him, a sincere, almost tender thing that enchants Will instantly and that’s when he realizes he’s touching Matthew, the pads of his fingers tracing a light trail across his cheek.

Embarrassed, Will drops his hand and it draws his eyes to the foremost problem at hand.

“I didn’t bring an ice pick,” he points out, and they both look at the ice holding Matthew prisoner.

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” Matthew muses. Will shoots him a look that Matthew just grins at and he rolls his eyes. “No problem, I can melt it. Just need to raise my body temperature.”

Will nods. It makes sense. But if it were that simple, he doubts Matthew would have simply waited until now to do so.

“How do you do that?” he asks.

When the seconds draw out and Matthew doesn’t reply, Will looks up from his contemplation of the stalagmites.

Matthew is wearing what has to be, hands down, the single most lecherous expression ever witnessed by mankind. He gives Will just enough time to take it in before his eyes drop and he very obviously, very _blatantly,_ looks up the length of Will’s body. Then, just to make sure he _really_ drives the point home, he wiggles his eyebrows and gives a little growl.

Will colors and a bark of incredulous laughter startles out of him. He elbows Matthew, shaking his head.

_“Really?”_

“Now don’t play coy, Mister Graham. You’re breaking out a high-profile psychopath, here. What’s a little making out in the grand scheme of things?”

“Oh, God.” Will’s surprised the sheer heat of his blush isn’t enough to melt the ice, but sadly, it stays very much intact. He closes his eyes for a moment to psych himself up and takes a deep breath. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Matthew agrees emphatically and when Will looks at him he’s wearing an expression of such hunger he has to look away immediately.

“Stop that or I’m going to lose my nerve.” Will shifts closer, thigh to thigh, and frames Matthew’s face with his hands to get him at just the right angle.

“Can’t have that,” Matthew murmurs, his breath fanning out warm and visible in the chill of the air.

A mere breath separates them and Will hesitates long enough to warn him with, “I’m pretty out of practice.”

Matthew just makes an impatient noise and closes the distance, and their lips slot together.

It begins slow and tentative, just the barest of pressure as they get a feel for one another. Will shifts his head to the side a bit and suddenly it’s perfect. Matthew presses against him, insistent and cool and radiating enough desire Will feels decadent with it.

Matthew’s lips part and Will follows suit and they move together, parting and returning in a lazy, steadily faster dance and Will shivers. It’s easily the best kiss Will has experienced, considering his limited frame of reference and that their only point of contact is their mouths and his hands on Matthew's cheeks.

Then Matthew’s tongue comes into play and traces the length of Will’s bottom lip.

Will gasps, stomach flipping, and he hears a loud, sharp cracking. Surprised and embarrassed by his reaction, Will jerks back, but Matthew chases him, fusing their lips together. Matthew’s tongue touches his lip again and then strokes inside his mouth in long passes that have Will’s heart racing and heat pooling urgently low in his gut.

Will grips Matthew’s shoulder with one hand to keep his balance and brings his free hand up to tangle in the short hairs at the nape of Matthew’s neck. Beneath his hands, Matthew is warm, so warm, and his grip tightens in response to Matthew’s bombardment. He carefully presses back, luxuriating in the heat and slick tangle of their tongues.

Matthew grunts, a low, guttural sound that goes straight between his legs, and another loud, sudden _crack_ resounds.

Before Will can lean back and investigate, hot, insistent arms are on him, one cradling the back of his head and another like steel across his lower back, pressing him tightly against Matthew. In seconds he’s on his back and Matthew is devouring him like a man half-starved. The hard, searing line of Matthew’s body is pressed tight to his and the heat is incredible.

The kiss dissolves into an almost frantic passion and Will feels Matthew’s hands touching him all over, stroking over his sides and on his hips, across his chest and over his thighs. Will’s hardly any better, feeling the strength coiled in the muscles his fingers graze over through Matthew’s thin layers.

Because Matthew clearly doesn’t seem to have any intention of stopping, Will jerks his head away, gasping for breath. Far from discouraged, Matthew immediately moves to his neck with open-mouthed kisses that make Will shudder and crave more of desperately.

 _“Ah_ -oh, God, Matthew—”

Matthew raises up and his pupils are completely blown when Will meets his eyes. His lips are red and slick and his skin has an attractive flush to it.

“You look so fuckin’ hot right now,” Matthew tells him and the waves of _lust/awe/hunger_ he can feel are so strong it momentarily dazes him. It gives Matthew enough time to reclaim his lips and rock his hips with a deep, tantalizing roll that makes Will keen into his mouth.

“Ma _—Matthew—”_

 _“Fuck,”_ Matthew breathes and Will realizes that hearing his name is undoing him just as surely as Matthew’s touch is unraveling him.   

“We—we have to stop,” Will reminds him weakly. In response, Matthew’s hands slide to his belt and roughly untucks his shirt. His heated, bare hands slide against Will’s stomach and over his chest and Will has to sink his teeth into his lip to keep in the noises he wants to make.

Will grabs a handful of hair and _pulls,_ hard enough that Matthew hisses and meets his eyes. Will’s not even surprised by the sharp spike desire that he feels in response.

Matthew stares down at him much like Will imagines sailors did just before they were devoured by sirens, all absolute devotion and profound reverence. Will licks his lips, feeling powerful as Matthew’s eyes drop to watch the movement as if he can’t help himself.

“You promised,” Will whispers.

Matthew says nothing, merely watches Will with an unreadable expression. His arms tighten around him minutely, and then he relaxes.

“I did,” Matthew agrees, and slowly, reluctantly, he separates from Will and stands, stretching.

Will shivers, feeling the chill for the first time since their lips touched, and accepts the hand Matthew offers him and pulls him up. Matthew squeezes him.

“We’ll have plenty of time once we’re out of here,” he says, smiling slyly and Will flushes and pulls back his hand.

“We have to get out of here, first,” he reminds him gruffly, picking up his blanket. Matthew grins wolfishly.

“That won’t be a problem,” he crows confidently.

The confidence makes Will pause. He hardly feels the same way and his hands clench in the folds of the blanket when nerves beset him.

“I’ll be useless around all those people,” he confesses, looking away and in the direction of all the agents he knows are just beyond the doors.

Heat like a brand settles on his lower back and Will feels a bit of his tension fade at the touch.

“You won’t have to do a thing,” Matthew assures him, words like a caress against Will’s ear. A tremor goes through him at the teasing swipe of Matthew’s hand.

“Will you kill them?” Will asks. The hand stops, then continues its stroking.

“Some. Yeah.”

Will’s throat closes. He’s been avoiding that thought since he’d first considered Matthew’s crazy proposal, but he can’t ignore it any longer. He feels sickened by himself, that he’s weighing the value of his freedom against other people’s lives and finding himself in favor of the former.

But Will doesn’t have the luxury of ignorance when it comes to his inner nature, his true self, and he could no more deny himself this than he could air to breathe.

“Okay.”

Matthew presses a kiss to Will’s head. “I’ve got your back,” he murmurs against his curls, and Will nods.

“And I’ve got yours.”

Steeling himself, Will steps away from Matthew’s embrace and leaves, knowing that for the first time, he won’t be leaving a wipe room alone.

He hears Matthew’s sigh of relief when he’s on the other side of the glass and away from the harsh white glow of the room. He moves to pass Will, rolling his neck, but Will stops him with a hand to his chest.

“There are guards on the other side. I can handle them.”

Will’s eyes flutter closed and like a thief in the night, he slips into their minds, stalks beneath their _boredom/impatience/unease_ and feeds their emotions just like he would if he were performing a wipe.

The pain is bearable only because Will doesn’t intend on wiping them. He floods their feelings to the point of bursting, then withdraws abruptly.

The sound of bodies hitting the ground greets Will as he comes back to himself, weak and panting. He slowly becomes aware of the arms supporting him, holding him up, and he drags his gaze up high enough to meet Matthew’s.

Will swallows at the swell of _lust/hunger_ Matthew aims his way and steadies himself, straightening and gesturing to the door.

“It’s done.”

Outside the door, the two guards are down, faces slack and limbs splayed almost comically. Will feels a stab of guilt that only increases when he thinks that they will probably be the lucky ones today.

“Impressive,” Matthew tells him, prodding an agent with his boot.

Will hums noncommittally, frowning. “We’ll have to wing it from here.” His lips twist into a bitter smile. “I don’t have clearance for the upper levels.”

Matthew nods and kneels next to the agent he’d poked. He searches him until retrieves a sleek black gun, grinning.

“I like a challenge. More fun that way.”

Will shakes his head, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips. He opens his mouth to retort that _his_ definition of fun involves less bullets, but is interrupted by the arrival of the elevator at the end of the hall and Beverly Katz, who takes two steps off before freezing.

Time freezes and Will stares at her in horror, thinking, _no._ He sees in slow motion how her eyes move from Will, to Matthew, to the guards. He sees the minute tightening of the skin around her eyes, the cool resolve that settles around her like a cloak.

She reaches for her gun at the same time as Matthew.

_“No!”_

Will lurches forward and between them, blocking both of their shots with his body. One hand he presses firmly to Matthew’s burning chest and the other stretches towards Beverly as if he can stop any bullet she fires through sheer force of will.

“Get away from him, Will!” Beverly commands, inching cautiously closer. Her gun is perfectly level with his chest, a shot Will knows can take down Matthew if she decides to sacrifice him. Behind him, Matthew seems to grow hotter and he can hear the crackling of flames; he doesn’t dare look away to see.

“It’s fine, Beverly—”

 _“Fine?_ They don’t _look_ fine!” She aims a sharp look at the two crumpled on the ground and Will shakes his head, desparate to make her understand, desperate to make her _stop_.

“They’re just asleep.”

A look of dawning horror crawls across Beverly’s features and he finally has her complete attention. She comes to a stop, several feet away. The gun wavers, but doesn’t fall.

“Will. You _didn’t—”_

Will just looks at her, sad that he’s hurting her but unable to regret his decision.

“I’m leaving,” he tells her.

Her mouth opens, shuts. She glances behind Will and her expression hardens. She gestures with a twitch of her gun.

“With him?”

“With him,” Will agrees. “It’s okay, Bev, really.” He finally feels it’s safe enough to look away and he glances behind him.

Matthew’s eyes are on Beverly, dark with intent, but his gun is lowered in deference to Will. He can’t seem to help the flames that crawl up his fingertips and skim up his forearms. Will is distracted for a moment, fascinated with the perfectly smooth, unbothered skin just beneath the fire. Will can feel the heat as close as he is, but he’s not worried about being burned.

Matthew’s glittering eyes dart to Will. He arches a brow, silently asking what Will wants to do.

Slowly, still looking at him, Will speaks.

“He’ll protect me,” Will says confidently. Matthew smiles. “Away from other people.” He looks back at Beverly, not caring what she might see on his face. “He’ll keep me safe.”

The sure grip Beverly has on her grip falters and the weapon dips. A stricken expression cracks her determined demeanor and her eyes turn searching and imploring.

“How can you trust him? He could be lying to you to get what he wants.”

Will gave her a wry smile and tapped his forehead. “I’m kind of the authority on whether or not people are lying.”

She can’t say anything to that, of course. It’s the entire reason for his existence in the BSU in the first place. Even still, there’s a tense moment when Will can’t read her properly. Her mind is a confusing jumble of _defense/fear/confusion/sadness/frustration_ and he doubts even she knows what she will do.

Her eyes dart to Matthew.

“And you? You’ll watch out for him?” Her tone brooking no argument.

“With my dying breath.”

The words are said with such absolute conviction a shiver crawls down Will’s spine.

Beverly looks between the two of them, jaw locked. Then, with frustration and agitation pouring off of her, she jams her gun back into its holster.

Will’s sigh of relief is cut short when Beverly stalks forward, face a weird place between furious and sad. Will tenses automatically, inwardly wondering how can she can be so much more intimidating without a weapon, and then her arms are around him, crushing him close.

“I’m going to miss you so damn much,” she tells him fiercely and Will gives a short, choked-off laugh and hugs her back.

“Me too.”

Beverly leans back far enough to see his face and grips his upper arms. She glares and shakes him lightly.

“Be happy,” she demands. “And get a fucking tan.”

Will smiles wide, overcome with fondness. “I promise.”

One last squeeze, then he’s released. She rounds on Matthew and jabs a finger dangerously close to poking out his eye, heedless of the flames.

“If I hear he gets so much as a _paper cut,_ I will _personally_ hunt you down.”

Matthew inclines his head solemnly, raising his hands in surrender and with that impish smile still tugging on his lips. The flames slowly stutter and gut out, revealing pale, smooth flesh.

“I understand.”

“Good.”

Without looking at either one of them, Beverly sweeps by and crouches by the fallen agents, checking them over for a pulse and losing a bit of the tension in the line of her shoulders as she finds it.

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes before I call it in. I’d like to give you longer, but Jack’ll be expecting me.”

Will’s heart lurches madly and he can barely speak for the sudden emotion that clogs his throat.

“Here,” she detaches the I.D. badge from a crisp black blazer and tosses it to Matthew over her shoulder. He catches it neatly, looking at it curiously. “That should at least get you to the ground level.”

Will regards Beverly where she’s crouched, determinedly not looking back, and swallows.

“Goodbye, Beverly.”

Will turns and walks towards the elevator, Matthew like a warm, silent shadow at his side. The hallway seems to stretch on but with each step Will feels a lightness to his steps, the steady release of a burden he’s shouldered so long he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be without it.

He feels free.

When they stand side by side in the elevator Matthew swipes the stolen badge over the card reader and punches the button for Level One. A small light flashes an approving green and Will steels himself for what he’ll soon face; agents he’s met, maybe even spoken to, trying their best to take him down, to trap him deep down in the dark.

Will doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until Matthew catches one in his. Will looks at him and soaks in the quiet confidence and assurance Matthew feels. He threads their fingers and can feel the emotions leeching into him, becoming his own. He can do this.

The doors begin to slide shut, and Beverly finally looks up.

“You know, with his sensitivity, he’d make a better hostage,” Beverly calls, looking at Matthew.

Confused, Will sees Matthew tilt his head, considering.

“Good point,” he replies agreeably.

In a motion so quick Will only has time to absorb that Matthew is moving, pain explodes in the back of head and as he falls, he feels himself enveloped in a strong, sure embrace.

Then everything fades into darkness.

* * *

 

Matthew catches Will easily as the doors slide shut. His eyes roam over the beautiful, slack features, awed. There is almost something obscene in how innocent and vulnerable Will appears, defenseless and ready for the taking.

And he's all Matthew’s.

Tenderly, Matthew brushes away an errant curl from Will’s face. He hoists Will in his arms and holds him close.

In all of his life, throughout his years of hiding and blending, of despairing of a dull existence surrounded by mediocrity and stifling his very nature to conform to a society that was broken and weak, he never, _ever_ could have expected Will.

But like an angel that fell from grace, Will came to Matthew, he _saw_ Matthew, he _understood him,_ in what? Seconds? Mere moments? Matthew’s carefully crafted facade, tried and true for years, had been like dust in the wind once Will got a good look at him.

And to think this perfect, incredible person trusts _him_ to deliver him from captivity, to protect and provide and free him. Matthew is thankful, and humbled. He won’t fail.

The elevator chimes and the doors open. Countless agent mill about, talk on their phones, to each other, look at documents and type their reports.

For a small bubble of time, they are sheep, blissfully ignorant of the wolf in their midst.

Matthew steps out of the elevator and gently places Will on the ground just outside of it, against the wall. He strokes the side of his face very lightly.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers.

“Hey, what are you doing?” some soon to be dead man demands of Matthew, coming closer.

Matthew thinks of this man, of all the people in this building, who allowed Will to wallow in the shadows, thinking he would never see the sun again. He thinks of the FBI hiding away someone so talented because of their fear.

He thinks about showing them fear.

Matthew rises, eyes on Will up until the moment when he turns around to face the room at large, eyes darting over those who were already stopping to take notice and those who would soon know him well.

The agent approaching stops short, face draining of color.

Heat bubbles across his skin, a release of pressure that Matthew delights in every time he exposes himself. More stop to stare, reaching for their guns, but they don’t realize it’s already too late.

Matthew holds out his arms and laughs, his smile wreathed in flames.

* * *

 

When Will comes to, he only has enough time to realize he’s in a moving car.

Then fierce, absolute, _agonizing_ pain assaults him.

Too many minds—sentiments—emotions— _feeling_ so much at once, a chaotic maelstrom of _anger/sadness/happiness/envy/lust/frustration/uncertainty/exasperation—_

Will grabs his head and hunches forward, wishing he could sink his hands into his skull and rip out his brain just to make it _stop._

Something’s shaking him, Will realizes, and one voice rises through the fog to stand out among the rest.

“Will, talk to me, babe, _Will!”_

Matthew sounds...Will shies away from trying to understand yet another mind in the ocean he’s already adrift in. Matthew sounds Not Good. Will feels the same. His throat hurts, like he’s been screaming.

Shakily, pained tears burning his vision, Will looks up and to the side, where Matthew is turned completely in his seat to face Will, gripping his shoulders tightly. There’s absolutely no trace of a smile on his face. He looks paler than usual. The car must be pulled over, but Will’s barely hanging on as it is just focusing on Matthew; the world outside is beyond him.

Matthew seems to relax minutely when he has Will’s attention and he runs his palms up and down the length of Will’s arms. It’s a role reversal Will would appreciate if he weren’t so busy feeling as if his mind were fracturing under the strength of a thousand screaming, relentless emotions.

“There you go, that’s it, babe, just focus on me.”

Will does and he grasps handfuls of Matthew shirt, frantic.

“Make it _stop,”_ Will pleads, completely uncaring of how weak and pathetic he sounds. Pride doesn’t exist at the same time as this incredible level of agony.

Matthew’s lips part, then he purses his lips, concern leaking onto his features.

“Yeah, okay,” and he releases Will to reach into the backseat where a large, worn duffle bag rests. Matthew rifles through it for a moment and settles back in his seat, holding a syringe. He looks comfortable, as if he’s used to handling them.

“It’s—”

“Don’t care,” Will gasps, yanking on Matthew’s shirt to bring him closer. _“Do it.”_

It could contain pure arsenic and Will would be glad for it. Anything, _anything,_ that meant deliverance from _this_ was worth any consequence.

Matthew’s eyebrows rose but, thankfully, he simply gets on with it.

Gently, he guides Will’s head to the side and Will inhales sharply at the sting in his neck. He winces when Matthew depresses the plunger and he feels something cool and foreign spread throughout him.

Will feels the clamor of emotions fade even before Matthew removes the needle from his neck and his eyes fall closed with weary relief. Hot tears trickle down his cheeks.

“Thank you…” he manages, and then the darkness takes him once again.

* * *

 

The next time Will wakes it's in near-silence, lying on a bed. He stares blankly at the unfamiliar ceiling, letting his surroundings bleed into him.

The lights are a soft, warm orange, completely unlike the harsh, cool blue lights of his rooms beneath the BSU. The bed beneath him is pretty shitty and he can feel a stubborn spring poking him somewhere near his lower back. The faint smell of citrus and disinfectant permeates the air and he can hear the steady pulsing of a shower nearby.

Slowly, Will sits up in shock.

 _He did it,_ Will thinks incredulously. They actually made it out.

He’s _free._

Will takes in the dated decor of the motel room, the shag carpet and the gold lamps, and his eyes snag on the light shining beneath the bathroom door on the opposite side of the bed. The water beats on, and a bit of steam pours through the crack.

Will rises and, after a moment of hesitation, turns to the window and twitches aside the thin linen curtains.

Night makes the outside a dark blur of shadows and silence. Will squints his eyes, but aside from the lights shining in the main office building, everything else is pitch black, only illuminated by the light of the moon. He reaches out, but can only detect the faintest presence of minds. It must be very late.

Suddenly, it’s crucial that Will gets outside _right now._

A handful of steps draws him even with the door and Will twists the knob, heart thundering in his chest.

He swings the door open wide, blinking rapidly when a crisp breeze washes over his face and pulls him forward. Will drifts outside like a ghost, an insubstantial thing carried by the wind, and he doesn’t stop walking until he’s standing in the middle of the parking lot, just breathing.

A wide smile splits his face. He’s breathing _real_ air, not the recycled, pumped-full-of-stale-oxygen he’d lived on for years. He’s _outside,_ unchaperoned, unscrutinized, and truly _alone._

Will turns to face the building and sees the moon, bright and half-full.

Deep home-sickness takes him. Will suddenly and fiercely misses his old life, draining a bottle of whiskey on his porch with his pack of rescues draped around him, listening to the crickets at night and letting the stillness of the night soothe his throbbing mind.

That life was long gone, he knew. But now he could start again and the thought drove away some of his melancholy.

Easing himself down, still feeling a bit unsteady, Will lowers himself to the ground until he’s stretched out on the cool asphalt, eyes locked on the moon suspended high above him.

There’s a manhunt out searching for the both of them right now, Will has no doubt. Not only has a Class Three mutant escaped captivity, but their prize empath and executioner is gone as well.

If for no other reason, their looking for Will is a matter of pride. Will smiles at the thought, a mocking, self-satisfied thing.

He has no intention of being found.

Above him, thin clouds pass over the light of the moon, dimming it’s brilliance but unable to extinguish it. The sight gives Will courage, and peace.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, lying on the filthy, frigid ground with his thoughts in the sky, but he knows it’s been long enough when he hears footsteps approaching. Will doesn’t so much as twitch, unwilling to move even though the ground is hardly comfortable.

Matthew stops just beside him, even with his hip. Will’s eyes slide to him and he takes in all of him; the dark, mischievous eyes, the sly smile, the relaxed posture; the darkness of his mind and the intensity of his devotion. Will considers the drop of water that slides down the length of his neck from his still-wet, slicked back hair as it disappears beneath the collar of his dark shirt. He thinks for a moment that maybe he’s simply switched one form of prison for another, and then decides he doesn’t care.

Matthew doesn't feel like a cage. He feels like coming home, like rest. Like breathing.

Will stretches out one hand and invitingly pats the ground.

“Care to join me?”

Matthew smirks at him, clearly amused, but lies down beside him anyways. He settles close enough Will can feel the heat radiating off him and folds his hands over his stomach.

“You look better,” Matthew notes. Will clears his throat.

“Yeah,” Will agrees. “There’s not a lot of people around.” Will turns his head to look at Matthew’s profile, eyebrow raised. “You knocked me out. Twice.”

“Yup,” Matthew says shamelessly, popping the ‘p’. “You literally asked for it the second time, though.”

“The second time. Not the first.”

Matthew shrugs a shoulder.

“Had to be done.”

“Mm-hm,” Will doesn’t hide the skepticism in his voice. Matthew finally tilts his head to look at Will.

“Is it always that bad?” he asks, and he looks serious, brow furrowed and concerned.

Will hums in the back of his throat, considering.

“Only when there’s an excess of people. Where were we earlier?”

“Highway.”

Will nods. “Yeah, that’ll do it.” He looks away, back at the moon, and feels Matthew’s eyes on his face, taking in his every word, expression, blink. “The more people there are, the harder it is for me to filter everything and stay grounded in myself. It feels like I’m being ripped apart in a thousand different directions.”

Those words hang in the silence between them and Will can practically hear the cogs turning in Matthew’s head. He gets faint impressions of _worry/determination_ and knows Matthew’s probably re-routing their entire trip to...wherever they’re going to involve as many country roads as he can.

“Where are we?”

“Tennessee.”

Will’s eyes widen. That’s a minimum of ten hours he must have slept through. “Wow.”

Back in the south. It’s dumb to get sentimental about it, but Will does. He imagines small towns, falling back into that good ol’ boy mentality of helping out the neighbors on occasion and enjoying a cool one after a long, hard and sweaty day helping at the docks or the shop. He imagines coming home to Matthew and telling him about his day, in some shitty place they decide to fix up together. He imagines a dog or two or twelve, and the look Matthew will give him when he insists on homemade dog food.

Will has to blink under the sudden force of longing that takes him, throat threatening to close on him and never open again.

He thinks about what he left behind, Beverly’s set jaw and the men on the ground. The men Matthew must have killed to get him here.

Regret is there, an almost crushing amount, but not enough to make him wish things had turned out differently. Will’s entire life stretches before him and for the first time in a long time, it actually looks worth something.

Will meets Matthew’s eyes, almost shy.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, gratitude nearly overwhelming him and unable to find a proper outlet to express it. How do you thank someone for giving you your life? “And I know Beverly made you promise, but I don’t expect anything from you. You must have better things to do than babysit.”

The words are so, _so_ hard to say but Will forces himself to. Will had only made him swear to set him free, not make sure he stays that way. Daydreams are one thing, and the least he can do is offer Matthew the same freedom he’s been given.

 _Amusement/fondness_ comes to the forefront of Matthew’s subconscious, warm and kind, and he reaches out to take one of Will’s hands in his own.

“If you want me gone, Mister Graham, I’m afraid you’ll have to kill me.”

The words are said in jest, but there’s something in Matthew’s eyes that say he’s deadly serious. It should disturb Will, the amount of loyalty he’s inspired in a perfect-stranger after only mere hours of knowing him, but it doesn’t. Instead, he feels comforted. Safe.

Will threads their fingers and closes his eyes. He simply lays there and lets the moonlight wash over them as Matthew watches and thinks of the future, free and together.

He smiles.


End file.
